"Would you pass me the measuring cup?"
Emma got up from her seat at the kitchen island to lunge across the counter. Mary Margaret had her hands full with the bowl of batter and her spatula, but she wiggled her fingers in the air as if to ask Emma to hand it to her cup-first. Emma gave her the handle instead, making sure her fingers curled around the grip before letting go, and lingered half-out of her seat.
"Are you sure you don't want me to help with that?"
Mary Margaret was far enough along in her pregnancy that she could nearly balance her mixing bowl on her stomach. She'd tried it earlier, to Emma's amusement, but had adamantly refused help every time it was offered. Emma's words had barely left her lips before Mary Margaret shooed her back into her seat, waving the spatula just slowly enough that she didn't send a spray of batter flying onto the cabinets. It was that kind of stubbornness that made it easy to believe it was David's wife, not David, that she was related to.
"This is your first meal back as a guest in our house," she said sternly, using her best teaching voice. "I'm not going to make you help me after you spent literally the last twenty-four hours of your life driving."
"It was only twelve. Killian drove the rest."
Her eyes slid from Mary Margaret over to the living room, which was considerably dimmer than the kitchen. Killian was still fast asleep on the couch, resting off the time spent awake and behind the wheel, and likely would be for another hour or two. Emma had been too hungry to stay asleep past noon, no matter how her head protested. Once she'd run into her sister-in-law, her plan to grab a granola bar and sneak back upstairs for another four hours of rest was shot. Even with their muttered words and the quiet clink of wood against glass in the air, somehow he slept on, and she felt a fond sort of jealousy fill her at the thought of his nose pressed into the back of the couch cushions.
"What I wouldn't give to be over there right now." Emma muttered the words into her half-cup of coffee, hoping but not quite betting on the idea that they would be swallowed up by the ceramic curve hovering under her lower lip. Part of her wanted Mary Margaret to ask, but the middle of the kitchen was not the place to have that conversation. Maybe she would tell her later, when her stomach was full and the couch was empty. It was only a matter of time before she begged the details out of her, anyway.
"Nobody's stopping you." Mary Margaret's optimistic suggestion sounded louder than the rest of their conversation had been, and on purpose. Emma got the distinct impression that her mind was being read, despite not having said anything specific, so she changed tack before specific questions could be asked of her.
"What's the cake for?"
Mary Margaret looked like she had an answer to an altogether different question prepared. A tiny line of confusion formed as she frowned, but then she seemed to decide against it, and shook her thoughts away.
"Because you're home. We didn't really celebrate New Year's properly, and you know how I am about parties." She gave Emma a smile even as she moved the bowl out of her reach. It was an extremely motherly move, one she made up for it by handing Emma the spatula once she was done scooping the batter into its pan.
"You didn't make a cake on New Year's because we weren't here?" Emma asked more softly, once she'd gotten a mouthful of cake mix. It was the same box mix she always tried to make, but Mary Margaret's invariably tasted better than hers.
"David was the one who suggested we wait...which means you're going to be a good sport and pretend it's actually New Year's Eve when we throw our party on Friday."
"You say that like I didn't plan you a surprise shower for you back in November."
"Co-planned. With my husband who can't keep secrets."
"Same thing."
Emma lingered around for another cup of coffee before quietly retrieving her bag from the living room and making her way out to her car. Mary Margaret mentioned something about waking Killian and grabbing David from his nap upstairs on her way out, but she'd made quick work on her share of the luggage in the Range Rover. Emma gave her their keys back with one last welcome home hug pressed into her arms before climbing into her lonely looking yellow Bug, silently promising to tell Mary Margaret about the rest of the trip once she was more settled in.
Maybe she was imagining things, but it felt like her car had missed her. The engine started a bit more readily than she was expecting it to, humming to life like she'd driven it yesterday instead of a week ago. She noticed a coffee cup resting in a cupholder one size too big for it and realized that her car had been driven yesterday. David knew how temperamental her battery could be, and had done his best to make sure the cold didn't send it into a tantrum. Emma caught her own fond smile reflected in the rearview mirror as she backed away from the curb, almost wishing she'd stuck around to see Killian wake up.
Almost turned out to be a bit of an understatement later on, once her clothes were in the washing machine and the rest of her things were sitting in a pile in her bedroom. Emma finished unpacking only to find that barely two hours had passed, and the quiet of her apartment was stifling. Not that it was quiet to begin with — someone upstairs had been vacuuming ever since she set her clothes in the dryer. She just felt like there should have been moreto keep her busy
The first night back is always the hardest, she reminded herself, skimming through the mail on her counter for the third time in ten minutes. It was all junk, barely enough to hold her attention in the first place. She was too busy missing the crackle of a fireplace on the far wall and the sound of someone rustling in the kitchen around the corner, the creak of wooden stairs under her feet and, most of all, the blanket in her closet in Tradition. Their trips weren't meant to be long — they purposely spent more time sightseeing and camping than they did in the house itself — but she always missed the cabin, no matter how good it felt to be at home.
She set off for the grocery store and managed to waste another hour by aimlessly wandering the aisles. Two different employees asked her if she was looking for anything in particular, and the second time it happened Emma started to wonder what she was doing with herself. Her basket had a grand total of two things in it: bread and cheese.
Practically jogging toward the self-checkout line, Emma pulled out her phone. There wasn't enough reception in the dairy aisle to get a call through, but she sent Mary Margaret a message asking if they felt like setting the table for three. It didn't go through until she found herself at the automated register, but two quick replies buzzed through the pocket of her pants.
Killian's already staying for dinner, she'd answered quickly, so the table's already set for three. We'd be happy to make it four.
Emma couldn't collect the change from the machine fast enough.
It felt a little ironic that her car was sitting in the same spot it had vacated earlier in the afternoon. Emma watched her breath cloud the window for a moment, working up courage to step back in the cold. The walk to David's front door wasn't long, but it wasn't really the chill in the air keeping her in her seat. It was the relief she had felt just turning onto the street five minutes ago, and how it had grown once their door had come into view. She thought coming home would shake the feeling of missing her family from her bones, but she felt it just as strongly as she watched their silhouettes pass across the little window above the kitchen sink.
Emma heard the front door thud closed and quickly looked past her reflection, eyes landing on a damp-haired Killian approaching her. He walked quickly, likely because of the same cold she was trying not to feel. "Emma," came his muffled voice, filtering through her door. "What are you doing out here? I saw you pull up three minutes ago."
Mild concern was mixed with amusement in his voice as he asked her, fingers pulling at her door handle until it gave way. He swung her door open and filled the air with the smell of his shaving cream, and suddenly he was right there in her space. The unidentifiable, restless ache that had lodged itself in her chest disappeared the second there was only air between them, surprising Emma enough to make her forget her response.
"It's cold out here."
"Yes, my point exactly. Your foot's still on the brakes," he said with fond exasperation, reaching to free one of her hands from the wheel. Either he hadn't noticed her reaction or he didn't care, because he was still smiling crookedly at her when her eyes met his again. "Afraid you're going to roll away?"
"No." Emma very pointedly released the brake and twisted toward him, realizing that he, like her, wasn't dressed for the cold. He wore a shawl-neck sweater, collar pulled up high around his jaw to ward off the cold, and the effect was more than a little endearing. She pretended not to notice how much warmer his hand felt compared to hers as she shut off her engine and pressed her keys into her palm.
"Everything all right at your place?"
"All my messes were waiting for me right where I left them."
"What more could you ask for?" Killian said it lightly, keeping hold of her as he led her back through the door, and only reluctantly let her go once they were inside the living room again. It was Emma's turn not to notice his reaction as she shuffled out of her boots and made a beeline for the kitchen, finding David in there this time. He was digging through the silverware drawer, apparently in search of something sharper than a butter knife.
"Oh good, you got her in here. I was starting to worry," he muttered absentmindedly, shuffling a soup spoon and serving fork away from his fingertips. "Mind getting us some drinks out on the table?"
Just like that, it was as if she hadn't left. She had spent just as much time in their home as she had in hers since she got back, and she'd been asleep upstairs for most of it, but David made it seem like coming to dinner had been the plan all along.
Dinner had made the feeling all the more pronounced. She'd sunk into the same chair she always sat in, the one right across from David, and Killian had taken his usual seat at her side across from Mary Margaret, nudging her gently in the thigh while she was busy scooping the extra tomato sauce off of her plate with a huge piece of garlic bread. She'd glanced over at him with a questioning look and received a shrug back in return, along with another crooked smile. It was strange, but David interrupted her thought with a loud clearing of his throat.
"It's nice to have both of you back here, especially since this week's usually about the four of us together," he began, a slow smile beginning at the corner of his lips. "And now that you are here, Mary Margaret and I have a bit of news. We weren't sure we wanted to tell anyone before the baby was born, but —"
"We picked a name!" Mary Margaret interrupted, with none of the dramatic pretense David had used. "We picked a name, and you two are the only ones who will know before the baby's born."
After spending the better part of four months pestering Mary Margaret for a hint and getting absolutely nothing, Emma was shocked. Her sister-in-law was famous for being terrible at secret-keeping, which had only heightened the suspense. Granny had skipped over her entirely, trying to pry it out of David instead, but the two of them were adamant. Not a single he or she ever slipped past their lips. Faced with the prospect of finally knowing, Emma found it in her to be patient a moment longer.
"Well?" Killian demanded, speaking her mind before she could. "Don't make us wait all bloody evening. Are you having a girl or a boy?"
"We're having a boy. His name is Leo Nolan."
The words tumbled out of Mary Margaret's mouth into the air between them, and all of a sudden chair legs were scraping, dinner mostly forgotten on the table in front of them. Killian had gotten up to hug Mary Margaret first and rounded on David next, clapping his back and even ruffling his hair up in gleeful celebration.
Emma's reaction time was a little slower. She wrapped her arms around Mary Margaret's shoulders for a moment and gave her the congratulations she'd been holding onto for months, taking in the name and rolling it around in her mind. Leo. He felt more real now than he had before when she was calling him Baby Nolan, and she felt her eyes drawn down to Mary Margaret's stomach as she processed the information. One month, and the baby would be here, an ever-present fixture in their lives.
"Actually, that's not all. There's a reason we wanted to tell the both of you specifically," David said, pulling his wife into his side and rubbing her shoulder with his hand. Mary Margaret was beaming, seemingly unable to keep her eyes on one of them for more than a second or two. "We want you both to be his godparents."
"We know that none of our families are very large," Mary Margaret added delicately, managing to linger on Emma with a softer smile, "so we thought we might try to make his a little bigger right off the bat."
Her world slowed down for a moment after that. While she felt herself nodding, saying of course to the elated couple in front of her, her mind was miles away. Every foster home that had pushed her out came to mind at first, but then she instantly thought of Ruth. Ruth, who had been more mother to her than anything, who made her forget she wasn't genetically related to David more often than not. Little Leo Nolan wasn't even born yet, and he had more people to love him than he knew.
Emma felt guilty just thinking it, and managed to push the thought to the back of her mind for a little while, but not for very long. She and Killian took dish duty since they'd cooked, and the instant the kitchen was quiet she lost herself in thought again. While her hands were mechanically placing mugs back in cabinets and wiping down plates, her mind churned with jealousy. For a baby.
The trouble was that these weren't exactly new thoughts plaguing her. Emma had spent more than one night wondering how things would change once he was born; it was only a matter of time before the couple's routine needed to change. She didn't resent them for it in the slightest — she worked hard not to — but there were times when Emma stared at the growing pile of nursery items in the spare room and felt unsure of herself. It wasn't Mary Margaret or David's fault that she didn't have any of this growing up. They were almost singularly the only reason she felt like she had a real, true home, but how much longer could she really call it hers the same way she did now?
"You don't need to scrub the design off the plates, love. They came like that."
Killian's voice cut through her thoughts, breaking Emma out of her self-induced fog. She looked up from the dish she'd been assaulting and mechanically pulled her hand away, setting it down in the dish rack instead. It was already too late to convince him nothing was bothering her; two steps and he was at her side, tugging the towel from her fingers.
"You've been awfully quiet since our happy little dinner, Swan. Is there anything I can do?"
He'd cut to the chase, not bothering to ask whether she was all right so she could lie. Emma almost wished he was worse at reading her, but it felt a little easier to stand in the presence of someone who understood what she was feeling. The few seconds she allowed herself to look up in his eyes made it clear he understood.
"I didn't want to say anything to them," she explained quietly. "It's not my moment. It's theirs."
Saying it out loud helped, but not as much as she was hoping it would. Killian noticed, like he always did. He twisted to lay her dish towel on the lip of the sink and stepped close, enough that he could have wrapped his arms around her if he wanted to. Emma felt him lean in to her and paused just a moment, eyes flickering to the door before looking back up at him.
Rather than closing the distance, Killian froze. Something had changed in his eyes as they followed hers across the kitchen and back again, moving down to her arms at her sides. She hadn't moved, but suddenly that seemed to be the problem.
"Are you all right?"
Now he was bothering to ask, and Emma knew why. This was a test, one she was going to fail unless she found a way to explain what she was feeling without sounding ridiculous.
"I'm fine," she responded lightly, brushing him off. "It's just been a long day."
"No. That's not what I'm talking about, Emma. I was just about to kiss you, and you hesitated."
"I didn't want them to come in here and see when neither of us has said anything."
"Were you planning on saying anything?"
He sounded frustrated, surprising her, and Emma couldn't help but respond in kind. It was as if she had been waiting for the opportunity, and now that she had it her body was raring to go.
"What is there to tell?" She asked, letting just a little too much truth slip out in her voice. She reined it in, taking a quick breath to steady herself. "We just spent a week driving across the country and barely figuring this out. I don't know if —"
"If it's going to last? If I'll get bored, now the hard part's over with? If I'll decide it's not even worth figuring out in the first place, perhaps?" He had backed up away from her now, giving them room to breathe despite the way the walls seemed to be closing in. Emma couldn't believe what she was hearing, even though it was coming in crystal clear. He didn't even sound mad, and that was the hardest part; his voice was soft and deliberate when he spoke to her next. "I figured out I wanted to be with you a long time ago, Swan. Before we drove a thousand miles away from home and went to Tradition. It's not me either one of us has to worry about."
He left her like that in the kitchen, stunned silent, and went out into the living room once again. Emma stayed long enough to make it seem as though she'd simply taken longer on her chores than him, and was gone the moment she could say goodbye to David. She made him promise to tell her she'd call later on, well aware that if Mary Margaret saw her, she'd break at once.
Because Killian was right, wasn't he? He wasn't the one who hesitated. It was her.